


Tea, at the Witching Hour

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Male Character of Color, Sharing a Bed, Tasseomancy/Tasseography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan had drained his mug, and when Bahorel took it to place both the empty mugs in the sink he can see the leaves scattered around the bottom. Jehan could read them, he has read them before, Enjolras had refused at first, but after both Feuilly and Combeferre had acquiesced he had been won over. Jehan had told Bahorel about candles and nourishment, hills and punctuality before Bahorel pointed out that he’d had a black coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea, at the Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitty-trio](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kitty-trio).



> I volunteered to pinch hit, so with a few days to go I took the prompt, _Jehan/Bahorel: “The fuck do you want?” “Frankly? I’d love a cup of tea, but it’s a cruel world.” (prompts via http://suddenlyprompts.tumblr.com/) Can be friends, lovers, besties whatever floats your boat; POC charas very welcome._
> 
> A (slightly shorter) Cykeem White has always been my headcanon Jehan, which I hope comes through in this fic, I've never yet found a Bahorel however, so feel free to imagine him as you will.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Halloween Kitty/kitty-trio.

All Bahorel wanted to do was to sit down at the end of a long day and nurse a green tea – he’d told Grantaire after practice that he’d be going home and knocking back a beer before passing out in front of an action film, but what Grantaire didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. It had been a long day, there are only so many hours that he could procrastinate his lectures before he had to show up to a seminar and maintain the appearance of being a law student, and then there was the fight he’d had to break up in the library – he didn’t need to study in the same place as trans-misogynistic arses anyway – then he’d lost a couple of hours to Enjolras’ latest poster campaign, and then finally the boxing practice with Grantaire.

All he wanted to do was to put his head down and pass out, but sleep was eluding him, so he had green tea, a marathon of _Toddlers and Tiaras_ on television – everyone had to have a guilty pleasure, and some of those little kids were so talents and so cute – and could just feel his eyelids drooping, when the pounding began at the door.

He was almost too tired to be concerned about who could be desperately knocking at this flat door. It wasn’t as though he lived in the most reputable area, and it was approaching half two in the morning, but at just under two metres and built – in Courfeyrac’s words- like a powerhouse, he wasn’t really worried about what could be behind the door.

He threw the door open, attempting to look intimidating clutching his green tea, bedecked in only his boxers and his softly worn down _Liberté, Égalité, Beyoncé_ shirt. He’d only started wearing it as sleepwear after Combeferre pointed out that it might somewhat subvert their message to continually wear it at rallies. Don’t say that Bahorel doesn’t make sacrifices for the group. 

Jehan looked up at him, and grinned.

“The fuck do you want.”

Jehan was standing there, lit from above by the flickering bulb in the communal hallway, looking like he’d just dressed himself out of a charity shop’s rejection pile. He was wrapped up in multiple scarves, a fringed poncho covering a patched demin jacket, and what appeared to be a nightdress underneath, his slippers were fluffy and one gloved hand was still reaching out to the door.

A knitted cap was tucked over his dreadlocks. It looks like one that Jehan made himself. Which was no criticism, there was a wonderfully technicoloured crocheted bedspread on the back of Bahorel’s own sofa, waiting for the winter months.

It made for quite an alarmingly eclectic sight to open the door to. Especially when unexpected.

“Frankly? I’d love a cup of tea, but it’s a cruel world.”

For a moment Bahorel could entertain the idea of just closing the door on him, but they both know that that’s never going to happen. It’s late, the kettle has already been boiled, and Jehan has decided that he wants to come in. Bahorel’s not going to send him back out into the night.

In only a few minutes Jehan has his feet tucked under him on the sofa, and has his dark fingers wrapped around Bahorel’s favourite mug. He’s holding the mug up to his lips and breathing in the steam as opposed to actually drinking the tea itself. Bahorel idly hopes that Jehan is actually going to drink the tea which he’d so delicately requested, he’d used the last of his good milk for it.

There’s no point in asking why Jehan has come to his flat, climbed up eight flights of stairs – courtesy of a broken down lift – in the middle of the night, for tea, when Courfeyrac and Marius live in his block and when he has his own kitchen and his own tea. So instead Bahorel just accepts it. Jehan is one of a kind, and he can’t truly fault him for anything, as much as he tries.

The television has been muted, so their quiet conversation doesn’t need to compete with the noises of squealing children and cheering parents. Their conversation is contrasting with the glitz on screen and the brightness of Jehan’s outfit.

“It’s the witching hour.”

“I always thought that was midnight."

Jehan shook his head, _finally_ taking a mouthful of steaming hot tea, closing his eyes before replying.

“No, it’s at three in the morning when the witches roam.”

“Well, that’s appropriate for Halloween I suppose.”

Halloween had been passing Bahorel by until a hand-addressed party invitation had landed in his post-box, an invitation for Bahorel (and plus one, should he feel so compelled) to come of Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s massive flat for a party. Why Courfeyrac had posted the invitation when they saw each other almost daily, Bahorel didn’t know. It had been nice to get post though.

Jehan had drained his mug, and when Bahorel took it to place both the empty mugs in the sink he can see the leaves scattered around the bottom. Jehan could read them, he has read them before, Enjolras had refused at first, but after both Feuilly and Combeferre had acquiesced he had been won over. Jehan had told Bahorel about candles and nourishment, hills and punctuality before Bahorel pointed out that he’d had a black coffee.

Jehan had slapped him on the arm for that, and Bahorel is never making the mistake of challenging Jehan to an arm-wrestling match again. Iit’s not that Jehan is stronger than Bahorel – Bahorel is built like an oak tree and has the tenacity of a bull; he’s been told this before, and wears it like a badge of honour, Feuilly promised to make him a banner for his birthday- but Jehan is wily and cunning. Jehan somehow always managed to win, Bahorel calls it foul play, but someone always rules in Jehan’s favour. It’s a conspiracy.

Bahorel’s sofa, even with its crocheted throw is tiny and while it’s nice enough to relax on, is too uncomfortable to sleep on. It’s too small for Bahorel, his feet stick off the end, and he suspects that it would be too small for even Jehan’s petite frame. Instead when Jehan started yawning and making noises as though he wanted to sleep Bahorel laughed, pointing Jehan in the direction of his cramped bedroom.

“I won’t take your bed Bahorel.”

“Don’t be daft, take it. I’m so tired I could sleep in the bath.”

Jehan tugged at his arm, in a gesture which would have been more powerful, had he not broken into another yawn.

“Come, we can share, I’m small.”

“I’m not.”

But Bahorel’s grumbles are enveloped by his own yawn, it was far too late for a discussion, and he was tired down to his bones.

He’s not going to kick Jehan out into the dawn, he doesn’t _really_ want to sleep anywhere but his own bed, and it isn’t as though it hasn’t happened before.

Jehan is asleep, still wrapped up in his poncho, with his dreadlocks loose and spread across the scarlet pillows, before Bahorel has clapped out the lights. Investing in a sound activated light switch was the best investment that he’d ever made, well, that and his friends, he supposed, all of them. Even if certain of them did use up his free time, his tea and his bed.

Bahorel wouldn’t have them any other way, even if he did steal the covers back from Jehan’s sleeping form, well, he wasn’t a saint.


End file.
